


touch me now, 'cause I'm not afraid

by fireflyslove



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:50:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflyslove/pseuds/fireflyslove
Summary: Assorted Good Omens ficlets because that's what I write now, apparently.Feat. A large amount of snuggling and touch starved ethereal beings and loving gazes and Crowley calling his angel "Zira"1: Aziraphale and Crowley watch a horror movie and Crowley snakes out.2: Two takes on the same scenario: someone's flirting with Aziraphale, who is quite happily married, thank you.  (Or, Idiots in love)3. Hearteyes4: Aziraphale gets a cell phone and immediately uses it to troll Crowley, as God intended.5: Snek!Crowley gets sunglasses





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *bangs pans together* I just want to write short fics of these two being adorable, so here's a dumping ground!  
> @fireflyslove on tumblr
> 
> Insp. for first one: [ Tumblr post ](https://kotoinari.tumblr.com/post/185991493618/%E7%9C%9F%E5%A4%8F%E3%81%AE%E3%83%A0%E3%83%BC%E3%83%93%E3%83%BC%E3%83%8A%E3%82%A4%E3%83%88)

To be perfectly honest, Aziraphale wasn’t overly fond of movies. He preferred to get his stories by way of book (or, occasionally, radio). But when Crowley suggested a movie night, Aziraphale wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity, if nothing else, he could spend the better part of a few hours staring at the way the light from the screen played over the demon’s face. Delightful things, televisions. 

Crowley showed up at dinner time with a paper bag in one hand and a canvas tote in the other. He proffered the paper bag to Aziraphale, who took it, and noted with some delight the savory aromas wafting out of it. 

“Indian?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

“Just for you,” Crowley said, flipping the sign on the door to  _ Closed _ and drawing the shades as he kicked it shut.

“You spoil me,” Aziraphale said, not really meaning it. 

“Always,” Crowley said, truly meaning it.

Aziraphale smiled to himself. 

The canvas tote produced a bottle of fine liquor, a DVD, and an entire television. They’re sitting on the tartan couch in Aziraphale’s apartment above the bookshop, knees knocking together lightly. Aziraphale has miracled himself a bowl of popcorn (apparently what one eats when watching a film) and, rather incongruously, a cup of tea, which he tipped the liquor into. From Crowley’s long fingers dangled a crystal tumbler sloshing with the liquid. The film, one Crowley claimed he’d never seen, but had come recommended as a delightful comedy, levitated itself across the room and into the DVD player. 

An hour later, Aziraphale is plotting a murder. 

For a demon, Crowley was extremely squeamish, and this was  _ not _ a comedy. Aziraphale wasn’t particularly bothered by it, but apparently Crowley was. His first indication was the sound of soft  _ thwoomp _ of Crowley’s wings manifesting into the material plane. They, like many things about angels and demons, bent reality around them, and somehow managed to curl around Crowley’s body, insinuate themselves between him and Aziraphale without ever moving the angel. 

Aziraphale glanced over and saw the sullen yellow of Crowley’s eyes glowing through the sooty darkness of his wings. 

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked.

“‘M fine,” Crowley squeaked, grimacing at whatever was happening on the screen. 

Aziraphale considered for a moment, then extended his own wings, wrapping one around Crowley. The demon leaned into the touch, his torso slanting toward Aziraphale. 

“We can turn it off, or watch something else,” Aziraphale suggested.

“No, no, it’s… it’s great,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale twitched an eyebrow but said nothing, only tucking Crowley further into his wing’s embrace. Twenty minutes later, the demon was practically lying in the angel’s lap, the bowl of popcorn and teacup long since banished to the side table. 

Something (Aziraphale wasn’t particularly paying attention to the screen at this point) made Crowley shriek, and then suddenly, Aziraphale had a lap full of shivering snake. He stroked a finger over Crowley’s scales, hoping he was imbuing his hand with a sense of calm, and switched the movie off as he did so. He curled his wings tighter around them both, and willed the movie to become something else. (Not that either of them was paying attention, but he turned The Exorcist into a documentary on ducks)

Crowley was a snake of varying sizes, depending on his mood, and this was rather the smallest Aziraphale had ever seen him, easily fitting into Aziraphale’s lap. Slowly, the shivering stopped, and (though unlikely for an Earthly snake) Crowley started purring. 

“There now,” Aziraphale said softly. “Let’s get you off to bed.” 

He scooped Crowley into his arms and proceeded to his rarely used bedroom, willing himself into appropriate clothes as he did so. He had no intention of sleeping, in fact he hadn’t in several millennia, but beds were wide and soft, and he knew Crowley slept. The blankets moved aside obligingly for them, and Aziraphale slid into the bed, his wings still wrapped around both of them.

He didn’t sleep, but his attention did drift outside of his physical form, which spent most of the night stroking absently over the length of Crowley’s scaly body. When his consciousness returned to his body, he found that Crowley was still a snake, but a much larger one, his usual preference in this form. 

He was lying still enough that Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not, but the twitching of Aziraphale’s body apparently roused him. 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said carefully.

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley replied, tongue flicking out. 

“Did you sleep well?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. “I… yesss,” he said finally.

Aziraphale desperately wanted to press, to find out what Crowley was leaving unsaid, but decided against it. To his delight, however, Crowley moved from his coiled position still half in Aziraphale’s lap and wrapped up and around the angel, over his shoulders and wings, until they were cheek-to-cheek. 

“Zzzira,” Crowley said. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Though, if I might make a suggestion?” 

Crowley did something with his face that was the snake equivalent of raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t take anymore movie suggestions from demons.”


	2. 2. Jealous!Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two takes on the same scenario: someone's flirting with Aziraphale, who is quite happily married, thank you. (Or, Idiots in love)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this was the original idea, but the first one decided it wanted to do the idea slightly to the left soooo here's both.

The bell over the door to the bookshop dings as the door opens to admit a woman in her middle years. Aziraphale looks up from the book he’s been reading and making notes on, sets his pen down on the notebook, and smiles. 

“Good afternoon, Deb,” he says. “Looking for anything specific today?”

Deb’s become something of a regular in the last few months. She has a taste for 17th century poets, and never asks to buy anything, just to read them. Aziraphale has been rather indulgent of late (a fact which he blames _directly_ on a particular demon. Said demon is currently curled up in the sunlight slanting in the window in the guise of a snake) and she’s always so careful with the books, it can’t hurt.

“No, no,” she says with a giggle. There’s something different about her today, but he can’t quite place it. “Well, not in a book anyway.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, “Is there something else I can help you with?”

She steps forward and puts her hand on his chest, just over his heart. “Oh, _yes_ . Do you have any lunch plans? I have _ideas_ about poetry I’d like to discuss,” she says.

He glances over at the still slumbering snake and shrugs, “No, I suppose not,” he says. Crowley surely wouldn’t mind if he were left alone for an hour or so, and Deb usually has some interesting (if not actually historically accurate) ideas that Aziraphale finds amusing. 

“Excellent!” Deb says, her voice still high and slightly shrill. 

Aziraphale flips the sign on the door to close, and they adjourn to a nearby restaurant. Aziraphale doesn’t notice the snake glaring balefully at their retreating backs through the window, nor does he feel the swell of jealousy that follows them down the street.

Lunch with Deb, as it turns out, is almost mind-numbingly dull. Aziraphale’s attention rapidly wanes as he realizes Deb doesn’t want to talk about poetry, she wants to talk about herself, and for some reason, him. He learns (and immediately forgets) about the entire life stories of her whole family. When pressed about his history, he gives vague (and fake) answers, miracling the mediocre food away bit by bit so she won’t notice he’s not eating it.

After what seems like an eternity (it’s more like an hour), the waiter finally brings the check. Aziraphale lets Deb get it.

When they stand, she leans in toward him, as if to say something in confidence, and he leans toward her to hear it out of habit. He’s rather shocked then, when she kisses him. 

He jerks his head out of reach of hers and reflexively wipes his hand across his mouth. 

She has the nerve to look affronted. “Well excuse me,” she says.

“Indeed,” he says. “I apologize if I’ve misled you as to the nature of our relationship, but I’m quite happily married.” 

She looks dumbstruck, “Oh.” 

“Indeed,” he repeats. “And, not to be rude, but I rather think my husband would do some nasty things to you if you came around the shop again.”

“Your… husband,” Deb says. “I am so sorry, I had no idea.” 

Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow at her, and she turns to leave, not another word said. He returns to the bookshop in an odd mood. He enters through the back door, not bothering to turn on the light. 

There’s a dark shape on his couch, limbs sprawled to take up far more room than is strictly necessary. 

“How was your date?” Crowley asks, voice carefully level.

“I was unaware it was a date,” Aziraphale says, reaching for a bottle of cheap wine. 

“When did you figure it out?” 

“When she kissed me,” Aziraphale admits.

This startles a snort out of Crowley. “Oh, angel,” he says. “You really thought she wanted to talk about poetry, didn’t you?”

“I did!” Aziraphale says. “How was I supposed to know she’s romantically interested in me?” 

“She’s been _very_ obvious about it,” Crowley says, taking the glass of wine Aziraphale offers him. “Not that that’s ever stopped you from noticing before,” he mutters. “What did you tell her when she kissed you?” 

“I _may_ have told her my husband would do bad things to her if she showed her face around here again,” Aziraphale says, blushing into his cup.

Crowley cackles. 

-

The bell over the door to the bookshop dings as the door opens to admit a woman in her middle years. Aziraphale looks up from the book he’s been reading and making notes on, sets his pen down on the notebook, and smiles. 

“Good afternoon, Deb,” he says. “Looking for anything specific today?”

Deb’s become something of a regular in the last few months. She has a taste for 17th century poets, and never asks to buy anything, just to read them. Aziraphale has been rather indulgent of late (a fact which he blames _directly_ on a particular demon. Said demon is currently curled up in the sunlight slanting in the window in the guise of a snake) and she’s always so careful with the books, it can’t hurt.

“No, no,” she says with a giggle. There’s something different about her today, but he can’t quite place it. “Well, not in a book anyway.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, “Is there something else I can help you with?”

She steps forward and puts her hand on his chest, just over his heart. “Oh, _yes_ . Do you have any lunch plans? I have _ideas_ about poetry I’d like to discuss,” she says.

Something niggles at the back of Aziraphale’s mind in the way she says the word _ideas_. He takes a step back from her.

“I already ate,” he says. “If you’d like to discuss some ideas, I would be more than happy to talk here, though.” He gestures to a stiff-looking chair opposite his desk. 

“Oh, well,” Deb says. “Surely you’d like to get out of this _stuffy_ shop.”

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale says, and over Deb’s shoulder he sees Crowley’s head poke up. 

“I can’t _tempt_ you out?” she asks. And well, Aziraphale’s not an idiot. 

“No, I’m afraid you can’t,” Aziraphale says cheerfully. “My husband’s rather tempted me out for the next decade or so.”

She recoils at the word _husband_. “You’re married?” she splutters.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. 

“I… ah,” Deb says. “I apologize. I’ll just… be going then.” She turns on her heel and nearly sprints out of the shop. 

It’s the angel in Aziraphale that keeps the bastard in him from laughing after her until the door shuts fully. By the time he’s recovered his wits, there’s a lanky demon looming over him.

“That was… interesting,” Crowley says. 

“Poor woman,” Aziraphale says. “She looked like she had seen a ghost.” 

Crowley bites his lip like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should say something. Aziraphale leaves him to work it out, and goes in search of alcohol while the Open sign flips itself to Closed.

They drink well into the night, with Crowley doing several impressions of Deb’s face. As the night deepens, however, Crowley’s mood turns distinctly sour. 

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale says, “what is the matter?” 

“Your husssband,” Crowley says. “Wasss that jussst an excussse?”

Aziraphale is significantly less drunk than Crowley, and has the sense to be affronted. “An excuse?” he says. “For what?” 

“To get rid of her,” Crowley says, gesturing toward the door. “Or is there sssomeone you’re hiding in these stacksss of yoursss?” 

Aziraphale _is_ still drunk, however, and it takes him a moment to catch up to what Crowley’s saying. 

“You think I’m hiding someone?” he says.

“Who’sss your _husssband_ then?” Crowley asks, spitting the word _husband_ with far more sibilants than strictly necessary. 

“Oh God in heaven help me,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley, my dear, my darling, _you_ are.” 

Crowley looks like someone’s hit him with a brick. 

“I… am… too drunk to deal with this,” he says, and then screws up his face, forcing the alcohol from his system. Aziraphale follows suit. “I’m such an idiot,” he mutters into his hands.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “Oblivious maybe. But then, we don’t have the best track record when it comes to that, do we?” 

Crowley scrunches up his face, and Aziraphale leans in to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. 

“But really, Crowley. Did you _actually_ think I had a secret husband hiding somewhere?” 

Crowley mutters something indistinct into Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale smiles quietly to himself and turns his head to press a kiss to the top of Crowley’s hair. 

“Love you,” Crowley mutters more clearly. 

“I love you too.”


	3. hearteyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally hearteyes

They’re having dinner a new restaurant(to be more accurate, Aziraphale is having dinner, and Crowley is watching him eat), a usual Thursday evening occurrence. Aziraphale’s grown rather fond of the way Crowley watches him eat. The demon has been scouring London for “hot new restaurants”, as the internet puts it. 

This one is one of the better ones, in Aziraphale’s opinion. The chef’s nuanced understanding of spices is plainly obvious, and the flavors just burst across his tongue. 

He glances up from the half empty plate at Crowley, who has a glass of wine in one hand and his chin lazily propped in the other. Aziraphale can’t see his eyes through the shades, but his face is relaxed, and he’s leaning toward the angel. 

“That good?” Crowley asks.

“It’s delightful,” Aziraphale replies. “Some of the best I’ve had in a long while.”

“I hear they do wonderful crepes for Sunday brunch,” Crowley says. 

“Well, we’ll have to come back. You’ve outdone yourself finding this place, Crowley.”

Aziraphale didn’t actually think it was possible for Crowley to look more lovestruck than he did when he watched the angel eat. (And it was lovestruck, even if neither of them had ever actually said the words. Since the Apocamiss, though, it’s been different. Better, more relaxed.)

And then, with a movement too quick for Aziraphale to actually see, Crowley’s shades change. The circular lenses are replaced by heart-shaped, red ones. 

Crowley reaches up and snatches them off his face, regarding them suspiciously. 

“Did you do that?” he asks Aziraphale.

“No, dear,” Aziraphale says. 

“Everything! They’re all conspiring against me!” Crowley mutters, but it sounds good natured. 

“Everything?” 

“That plant you gave me last month has been encouraging the others, saying nice things to them when I’m not there, I can tell. You’re a bad influence, angel. Don’t even get me started on what the Bentley has been playing recently,” Crowley says. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets a cell phone and immediately uses it to troll Crowley, as God intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even fuckin' know, guys.
> 
> The link in the first text is pretty necessary for context, and leads to a gif with spi

**UNKNOWN NUMBER** : ATTACHMENT: [me.gif](https://66.media.tumblr.com/767503f6aeac9b7305c9427357d25867/tumblr_pue6q1Tpo51rby04wo1_1280.gifv)

**ME** : Sorry, who is this?

**UNKNOWN NUMBER** : 🍆 

**ME** : I think you have the wrong number.

**UNKNOWN NUMBER:** 😈 

**ME:** Seriously, how did you get this number?

**UNKNOWN NUMBER:** You've had the same phone number since 1967, Crowley.

**ME:** Aziraphale? 

**UNKNOWN NUMBER: **😇****

**ME:** How do you know what the eggplant emoji means?

**ME:** What is moronsexual?

**ME:** Aziraphale

**ME:** AZIRAPHALE

**AZIRAPHALE **😇:**** Yes, dear?

**ME:** WHY DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE EGGPLANT EMOJI MEANS?

**AZIRAPHALE **😇:**** I'm not an idiot, Crowley.

**ME:** I think you're implying I am.

**AZIRAPHALE** 😈: 🍑

**AZIRAPHALE** 😈: I'm not implying anything.

**AZIRAPHALE** 😈: I'm coming right out and saying it.

**ME:** You're a bastard.

**AZIRAPHALE** 😈: You love me anyway.

**ME:** I'm not sure it's an in spite of, angel.

**AZIRAPHALE **😇:**** 😘


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snek!Crowley gets glasses.

Despite what Crowley might think, Aziraphale is actually quite comfortable using a computer and the internet, he even has a smartphone. It’s just that he prefers the feeling of paper under his fingers and ink on his hands. And they live in London, so it’s not hard to find everything one might need, even the most esoteric of ingredients if he feels like cooking (which is rarely).

Lately, however, he’s taken up a new hobby, and there’s little choice in where to get the pieces, so he turns to the internet. Making miniatures, mostly of scenes from his own life, gives him just the right amount of tactile input and easily-achieved results to satisfy him. And keeping them in the window of the shop seems to have turned off even more perspective customers lately, a bonus he wasn’t expecting.

It’s late winter, and Crowley’s spent the last week or so slithering around the bookshop as a snake while Aziraphale does his yearly (ish) inventory. He seems to prefer being slung around Aziraphale’s shoulders like some kind of demented scarf, but today Aziraphale has been up and down ladders, and he isn’t taking the chance that he might drop or step on Crowley. 

In lieu of his lover’s shoulders, Crowley is curled up in a basket in the sunny window, just next to Aziraphale’s latest project. He’s sleeping, or at least something close to it, and his head keeps sliding off his coils further toward the figurines.

There’s one that definitely does not resemble Crowley (Aziraphale knows lots of gingers in sunglasses, he does!). Aziraphale’s inhuman hearing picks up the susurration of Crowley’s scales sliding against each other, and he turns his head just in time to see the demon bump into the display. 

He upsets the miniature version of himself, knocking it over. In a move Aziraphale will later swear is a miracle, the tiny sunglasses fall off the miniature and onto Crowley’s snake face. 

The snake comes awake, his head snapping up to look around, tongue flicking out. The sunglasses are balanced perfectly on his nose, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. He prefers Crowley without his glasses, something to hide behind, but just now the demon is downright  _ adorable. _

“What are thessse?” Crowley hisses.

“Sunglasses,” Aziraphale says, coming over to the window to straighten them on the scaly nose.

“I’m the mossst fashhhhhionable sssnake in London?” Crowley asks.

“Always, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “Would you like me to take them off?”

“No,” Crowley drawls, and looks at his reflection in the window. “They sssuit me.” The motion upsets the glasses and they begin to fall off again.

“Hold still a moment,” Aziraphale says, and waves his hand, summoning a bottle of glue from his office. “This is scale safe, if you’re interested?” Crowley’s, well, they’ve both been rather committed to their chosen aesthetics since the dawn of time, and Aziraphale is more than willing to help Crowley achieve his Look™ in this form. 

“Angel, have I ever mentioned I love you?” Crowley asks after the glasses are lightly tacked in place.

“Once or twice,” Aziraphale says. “But it’s always nice to hear.”

“Angel, I love you,” Crowley says.

“And I, you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found anywhere a pan bangs @fireflyslove


End file.
